Art as Meditation

Peter London has said, “Why is it that dexterity, knowledge of art and taste do not necessarily add up to what we seek in art?”

And why, even knowing that, do we let our lack of dexterity, knowledge and taste make us feel bad about ourselves?

What we’re looking for is authenticity, wonder, maybe even joy. And when we find it, we can love it. But when we express it, we feel the need to apologize for it. I’m trying to stop doing that. Who’s with me?

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews, or as a PDF download on Ko-fi.

* * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * ** * ** * * ** ** * * * ** * ** * * * * * ** **

I’m going to stop telling myself that my junk journals aren’t art (they totally are), that my collages aren’t good enough, that my morning pages aren’t real writing. It’s all bullshit. I’m externalizing an internal vision when I do any of it. That’s art. It counts. Some people may do it more dextrously or with more knowledge. Taste is so subjective that I’m not even going to talk about it. But the attempts, the tries and fails, the “Oh! Look what I made!”s all count as art. I can be proud of that. And so can you.

He goes on to say, “There are some disabling myths about what art is, how to do it, what is good art and what art is for, that have gagged generations, depriving them of significant and natural means of expression. This is a terrible loss and and unnecessary one.”

Yeah, but the rules are the rules are the rules, right? You can’t have people just doing whatever they feel like and calling it art. What kind of world would that be?

Well, besides a happier, less restricted world. A world where people feel seen and heard, where we can support each others’ efforts and be actually pleased with our own. Where we’re free to surround ourselves with what we call art and find it beautiful. It would be a really great world, I think.

Many years ago, when Alan and I were in Paris, we went to the Rodin Museum. My sister, who was travelling with us, came stomping up to me at one point and demanded to know, “Who gets to decide? Who says what’s great art and what isn’t?” She is not, apparently, a fan of Rodin.

I said, well, there are rules and standards that have been set through the years that most people agree on. But that doesn’t mean you have to like the art. You get to decide that for yourself.

Just like, you can see a work by an unknown artist and fall in love with it. You don’t need a committee to decide if it has merit, just — I love this! And home with you it goes. We have a few pieces like that. They make me happy every time I look at them.

I’m getting more confident counting my junk journals as art, too, especially the ones I fill with collages. The daily journals are, I think, more art-adjacent, but still more than worth pursuing.

The more I work on my art, the more confident I get that it actually is art, the more willing I am to call myself an artist, and the happier I am. With no unnecessary rules, I can muffle the voices of criticism in my head and all my other insecurities. I am who I am. I do what I do. Love me or don’t. I’m going to keep being me.

This all goes double for my writing. My morning pages totally count, even the bits I don’t share with the world. My fiction and poetry counts as well. So does what I post online. It’s all art and it feeds my soul to do it.

I’ve read that art is a meditative process, which, since I’m so bad at meditation as meditation, is a bit of a relief. I really like the idea of art as meditation and I do find it a grounding, meditative practice. I can carry my time in the studio over into the rest of my life — the lessons learned, the calm acceptance acquired, just like people say happens when you meditate regularly. It’s very cool.

And I am so loving my daily visual journal. Even on slow days, when ‘nothing happens’ I find myself looking for the scrapbookable moment, as Alan calls them.

One such day, I read and rested. Did a little bit in my studio and had leftover egg salad and chips for lunch (Go ahead and judge me. It was delicious!). So I cut the decorative part off the chip bag and cut out a picture from a magazine to represent my studio time. I wrote out the day’s writing prompt and added a couple of stickers, and a day that might have passed unnoticed is now one I will remember as being a good day.

I’ll do the same today. And every other ‘ordinary’ day that comes my way. This practice helps me realize that no day is actually ordinary. They all have little differences, highlights worth noting. What, undocumented, might just look like a blur of sameness, in the documenting becomes unique, rare, special. Those are way better benefits than any I’ve ever found sitting on a cushion, noticing my breath. Not to put down traditional meditation. It just doesn’t work for me.

* * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * ** * ** * * ** ** * * * ** * ** * * * * * ** **

Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo or Ko-fi. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.